Thorin's Company
by kkolmakov
Summary: A series of one-shots, each dedicated for one member of Thorin's company on their Quest for Erebor. After a full round, I might feel like more ;) Mostly inspired by the films, but I'm trying to avoid contradicting the book. Best read together with my other drabbles *No infringement intended* The ratings changed! Beware! :)
1. Bifur

Tears are running down your face, you are wiping them with the sleeve from your wrist, quietly sobbing, not really holding it back. You let yourself be sad, hurt, your pride injured, let yourself think that the world is unfair, and surely noone loves you. You are not crying for yourself, but because Thror cannot.

Once the yelling stopped, he rushed out of the chambers, little stubborn fists clenched, his cerulean eye, so alike to his father's, blazing. He is punished unjustly and knows that. If only he explained that he was sneaking around the armoury on a bet, he would be let go with only light scolding.

But Thror, the son of Thorin is "no traitor" as he will quietly explain to you later, when you come to tuck him in for sleep. With only one candle lit in the room, it is time just for the two of you, when secrets are shared and confidentiality is ensured. He whispers, "You should have seen that dagger, amad, it is magnificent, longer than my arm," his eyes are gleaming with the memories of the wager. "If only the shield was not that heavy," a sigh leaves his lips. "You are not allowed in that armoury, Thror, you father has made it clear. The weapons in it are not secured properly." What you omit is that most of the King's fury came from how terrified he was when after the deafening rumble of cascading shields and chest plates they pulled the rumpled prince from underneath. In the instant his father was on his knees in front of him, grasping sturdy little shoulders, arms and torso, running his palms over the mumbling youngling looking for injures. Once none were found, the shouting started.

You know of the bet and, while Thorin is raging and raving, you look at the heaving chest of the prince, back straight, black brows and glare an exact miniature of the King's usual scowl. You often wonder whether anything in the young prince came from you. All Dwarven stubbornness, heightened feeling of honour and loyalty, short fuse and obsession with weapons and precious metals, Thror is a handful. Right now, a mother's soft human heart is screaming, "Tell your father the truth, the punishment is going to be severe." On the other hand, the same heart belongs to a proud and unyielding Dwarf, and you feel a flicker of admiration for the adamant prince, who is lifting his chin and straightens his shoulders. The rage of Thorin Oakenshield is something even an experienced warrior would likely cower from.

Thror is sent away to his chambers, and you rush out of the hall, through the passages, to the tallest part of the castle. You find an empty balcony and sink on a bench. The fright in the armoury, Thorin's fury, the hurt and the humiliation on your son's face after being berated in front of the older Dwarves, all the emotions rush back and you weep. Suddenly a heavy hand softly touches your shoulder. You lift your eye and see Bifur silently handing you a pristine white cloth. You smile gratefully and wipe your tears. He sits near you and fishes out something from his vest pocket. A small intricate toy is laid on the calloused palm, and you see that it is a little doll with a smiling face and fizzy black hair and beard. It is definitely a Dwarven maiden, with a flowery dress and chubby legs. You thank him and accept the gift. He pats your shoulder again and gets up to leave. And then you count, and recount, and the moon cycles add up in your head, and you press your hand to your mouth. The only other time when you were crying that openly when expecting Thror. You look at the doll in your hand and feel the warmth spreading through your chest and limbs. "And how did you know, honourable Dwarf?" you are shaking your head in disbelief. The former toymaker shrugs his shoulders and you see a wonder of wonders: Bifur smiling.


	2. Dwalin

DWALIN

You thrust in what you feel is a very smart move, but Dwalin blocks and binds your sword, gaining immediate advantage due to his greater physical strength. You step back and disengage, but then cunningly pounce and your precise volte leads the point of your sword to his chest. You jab him lightly, and he roars with laughter. He lifts his arms in defeat, and you step back, exhausted and highly pleased with yourself.

"You are getting slower, Master Dwarf," he is chuckling and graciously hands your outergarment over to you. You wrap yourself and wipe the grip of the sword with a cloth. Mudikh, your short, wide blade, made for your King when he was but a youngling, is gleaming in the soft evening light. You gently stroke the forte with the tips of your fingers. When you are looking at the weapon, warm affection as to an old friend and gratitude flood you, for all those times when it saved your life and those of your kin. "You do not seem to, Barazninh," the low voice of the Dwarf shakes you out of your reverence. You sheathe the sword and pass Dwalin a mug. You recognize that the Dwarf is hiding an inquiry under his compliment. "I am feeling exceptionally well, all things considered," you smirk and rub your small round stomach.

"Is that why I'm beating every single of your attacks today, Master Dwarf? You are coddling me, aren't you?" "Your victories are yours, and yours only, my Queen," the Dwarf shakes his head and you feel even more gratified, as the fearsome warrior in not one to avoid speaking his mind. "The blood of Durin inside has made you even more fierce," he sounds reverent. You both sit on a wooden bench, you rub the stomach again and smirk, "This one is a defiant one," you sigh. "I am certain, once the young prince is born, Thror will seem as mild as an Elven maiden." Dwalin lifts a sceptical brow. "The other day this mild heir of the throne threw one of his comrades into a river for some presumed ungraceful remark." You laugh, "He is such a son of his father." "Thorin was the same in his age. Short temper, full of importance. You could see the great King in him since he was a child," Dwalin's staunch loyalty and resolute devotion to his King are lacing his voice.

"What was Frerin like?" "Too young, too brash," Dwalin frowns, painful memories of the Battle of Azanulbizar clouding his spirit, "He would never listen." "Sounds familiar," you regret bringing up the grievings of the past and try to distract the Dwarf, "Was not the princess found yesterday hiding in the forges again?" Dwalin guffaws. "She said I was not her guchir to disallow her to stay and see the "fire towers". I believe there was some stomping." You imagine your middle daughter's outraged scowl, the dark eyes, so alike your mother's, scrunched, nostrils flaring haughtily. She is Dwalin's appendage, finding and following him as soon as she can escape the exasperated chaperones. It happens surprisingly often, her hiding and scouting skills exceptional. The King has eventually given up on assigning new guardians to her, having realized that the curly head of Unna, daughter of Thorin will continue popping up all over the castle halls, no matter the skills of her attendants.

The other day in the middle of a council in the Throne Hall, a tedious speech of one of the councillors was interrupted by a cacophony of chalices and goblets tumbling from a low table in an alcove. Startled out of their drowsiness, and some out of plain snoring, everyone stared at the princess crawling from under the table, guilty but still slightly mutinous grimace adorning her face. The King was rather unsucessfully hiding his chuckles under coughs, biting his lower lip and covering his mouth with his fist. But the mirth sparkling in his eyes betrayed him, and with a victorious squeal the princess ran to him and climbed on his lap. You had to get up and carry her away, listening to her petulant grumbling. Let us be honest, when you were taking her from the King's arms, you saw pride in his eyes and a slight disappointment when you pulled away her squirming sturdy little body. Obviously, he would prefer to bob the giggling youngster on his knee and terrify her with stories of fire-breathing dragons and revolting trolls, as opposed to listening to endless muttering trade reports of cantankerous old Dwarves.

You are both silent, enjoying the warm rays of the setting sun, Dwalin with his mead, you sipping mint tea. You screw your eyes at him and start, "So, Master Dwalin, when will we see little grandsons of Fundin?" He schools his face into a cold expression, you being probably the only person whom he allows to tease him. "When comes a woman mad enough to have me?" "Many would be happy to." He squints and glances at you askance. "A renowned warrior, with one fourteenth of the Erebor treasure, of the noble family, tall, an opulent beard," he puffs scornfully, "I heard Arna complimenting you the other day." You feign innocence and patiently wait for his response. He is quietly mumbling under his nose, but then cannot help it anymore, "Which one is Arna?" He sounds peevish but you got his interest. "The redhead, daughter of Dorin." He momentarily looks pleased, but then furrows his brows into an uninterested frown. "I am too old for trifle dawdlings." "I heard one of the woman assuming you would be too zealous in your courtship, so I do not think your age is an obstacle." He stares at you looking for signs of mockery but your return stare is frank and open. "Too zealous? What does that even mean?" You imitate a growling noise and grab you rolled up cloak from your lap. You squash it in your hands and slightly shake in pretense throes of passion. Dwalin's eye are the size of a plate, he had hardly expected such a demonstration from his Queen. You instantly school your face and bearing in a picture of regal dignity and add innocently, "But I think most women found the thought of it your merit. Some looked rather dazed." The Dwarf ungracefully jumps up and with an hurried bow rushes back inside. You rub your stomach and pleased to no end you say, "And my work here is done."


	3. Gloin

Sigvor, the wife of Gloin is a renowned beauty, many women envying her lush beard and bright hazel eyes. She carries her full body with surprising lightness, grand and noble, the wife of one of the thirteen from the King Thorin's company and the mother of a strong, healthy youngling. So few of them are so far running through the halls of Erebor, her motherhood adds to her esteemed status. You run into her in a street and smile politely, feeling the usual mixture of envy and apprehension at her sight. As you are trying to sneak away from the city, your head is covered with a hood and you choose backpassages. Please, ignore me, please, you plead silently, but she catches your eyes, and you sigh.

She gracefully bows and inquires of your health. With no way to escape now, you shake off the hood and answer politely. You have never actually had a proper conversation with her, with just a few empty pleasantries exchanged in the two years you have lived in Erebor. You courteously ask after her family, whether her husband is back from his traveling to Ered Luin, what new skills her son Gimli has acquired after he started his training. She answers calmly, quiet pride for her household lacing her voice. You feel unreasonably irritated and try to thwart the foolish animosity. You realize that you are jealous of her certitude, her obvious sense of belonging and purpose. You know you never will be accepted and respected the way she is. A mistress of the King, a female of Men, possessing a gift of magic, all of you is to cause resentment in Dwarves, with their jingoism and narrow-mindedness. She talks, you nod, hoping she would let you go, your only thought is to escape into the woods surrounding Erebor. You need to leave the austere passages and halls, lit by fire and not the warm enlivening sun. You crave to sit leaning to a living breathing support of a thick strong trunk, feel its serenity, close your eyes, surrounded by the tender rustling of lush green foliage.

Gloin comes out of a shop you are standing near, and you realize that in your agitation you missed the part where she explained that her husband is indeed back from his journey and is finishing his shopping inside, right there, behind this door. While your bitterness towards his wife is irrational and based solely on your envy, your antipathy towards Gloin is well-founded. Not once you have heard him expressing his doubt whether you belong by the King's side. Never to your face, but as you suspect, with the intention of being overheard. You straighten your back and pin the Dwarf down with a stare.

Had your unease from the conversation with Sigvor shown, you would have felt remorseful, having no reason to dislike her, but nothing would please you more at the moment than an open confrontation with the conceited Dwarf. You are sufficiently irritated after being confined in Erebor for the last fortnight, weather and errands not allowing you opportunity to vent your perpetual exasperation from being constantly observed, judged and found undeserving, usually mollified by a long walk in the woods. You smile inscrutably and greet the Dwarf.

He bows, and you see that his shoulders are tense and a frown adorns his face. Sigvor addresses her husband, inviting him to join the conversation. You lift a brow and wait for his response. "I am sure the honourable lady Filegethiel has more important things to do than to learn of the matters of our household," he uses your Elven name, which is aimed to sting, most Dwarves calling you Zundushinh, the name the King uses. You give him a cold smile, "I assure you, Master Dwarf, your trade and the successes of your son are indeed of great interest for me." Sigvor places her hand on her husband fisted hand and continues her explanations. She acts oblivious but you are starting to suspect that she is not so unaware of her husband's misgivings as you previous thought.

You discuss the latest news from the East, a large group of merchants from Iron Hills having recently arrived, you chat about the new fashion in braids, and it dawns on you that you undeniably like Sigvor, the wife of Gloin. You find her especially delightful, because you realize that all her talking is aimed to irritate her fuming hisband. Since he came out of the store, her voice sounds higher, she speaks faster and occasionally touches your arm quite affectionately. You play along, giggle at her jokes, ask endless questions, Gloin's face increasingly redder and more and more rankled. At some point he tries to turn the conversation towards bidding farewell, but she firmly shakes her head and says in the most unwavered voice, "We are not done, my husband. The Queen and I still have plenty to share," and to your complete disbelief she dismissed him with a wave of a hand, "Perhaps I could join you later."

The Dwarf puffs and hardly taking time to bow he hastily makes himself scarce. You turn and look at her unperturbed face with a complete and utter admiration. "Cankerous Dwarf," she shakes her head and looks at you with a cordial smile. "I am not your Queen, Sigvor, daughter of Benrir," you say softly. "Of course you are," she shrugs and puts her hand on your upper arm. "You are the Queen of the King's heart, and Erebor is indebted to you beyond measure. If our narrow-minded husbands choose to forget the lives you saved at the battlefield and in the infirmary, the women of the Kingdom Under the Mountain will remind them that prejudice and ingratitude never lead to anything good." She rubs your arm with her thumb and adds, "I apologize that I interrupted your walk, my lady, but the obstinate Dwarf was to be taught a lesson." She graciously bows her head and follows in the direction where her peeved husband took his leave. You are standing in the middle of the street, befuddled and awed, the busy crowd rushing by and the cold stone walls finally feel like home.


	4. Fili

Your feet are sliding on the thick crust covering the snowdrifts, the twisted ankle shooting searing pain up to your hip, your fingers frozen and immobile, deep cut on your right palm, though numb, oozing blood through a hastily made bondage. You clench your teeth and push forward. You can hardly see within your arm's reach, blizzard raging around you. The wind is jerking the hood of your cloak, snowflakes are stinging your face. A terrifying suspicion that you are lost is nagging at you, but you keep on treading, knowing that you need to move to stay warm.

The trail you tumbled off from is high above you, on a tall cliff, the fellfield almost vertical. Cold and weakened as you are you can never climb back. Your only hope is to continue in the same direction as the company you were travelling with, trusting that they will find a way to go down to the valley you are plodding through. You poor pony had to be abandoned where you landed, hardly breathing, after taking most of the impact of the fall on itself. The scree you landed on was only partially covered in snow, sharp edges of rock crushing the bones of the unfortunate animal. Alarmed, you feel blood filling your left boot, the large cut on your thigh deeper than you initially assume.

The cold is overpowering you. You shake your head to fight the drowsiness, but our eyes close and you stagger. One of your knees sinking into the snow, you topple over and sag. The cold envelops you, biting the palms, the cheeks, crawling between the furs of the garments. Suddenly you feel much warmer, almost cozy, and panic flares in you. Get up, get up, you are losing consciousness, the voice is ringing in your head. That is how people die in the cold, they fall asleep and never wake up. The voice suspiciously sounds like Thorin's, and you wave him off dismissively. Just a few more minutes, it is so warm here, you are all snug and comfortable. You feel as if you are under your covers, in your bed, and you want to bury your nose deeper into the pillows. Just a few more minutes, my King...

Get up, Thorin is yelling into your ear, and you jerk. Well, that is just rude, you do not have to start your morning just yet, you deserve a bit more snuggling, and may be the King wants to join you… You stretch your hand but there is no King, no covers, just snow and ice, and the sharp snow crub stinging your injured palm. You clench your jaws, tense all your muscles, and drag yourself out of the stupor. You are telling yourself that getting up will be the hardest part, after that it will get better, just a few first steps. The hypnotic lethargy of the cold still calling for you, you sink your nails into the cut on your hand. Pain somewhat clears your mind, and you push yourself up. Just a few first steps…

With the veil of the thick snowstorm in front of your eyes, you doubt you will last long. Even if your companions find a way down to you, if you fall, you will be covered in snow within minutes. Staying upright seems increasingly unaccomplishable, and all you feel is weariness and dull apathy.

Suddenly you seem to see a darker stain in the white wall in front of you. You are sluggishly question whether your eyes are failing you, or it is already braindamage from the cold, when the stain becomes sharper on the edges, taking the shape of a broad figure of a Dwarf. Bushy fur collar of a cloak, wide shoulders, and finally you see the golden mane of the King's older nephew. He is trampling through the snow, large decisive strides, long strong arms moving in a forceful rhythm.

Finally he is in front of you, familiar lopsided smile and laughing eyes. You sag and he catches you, "I got you, got you," he carefully inspects your injuries, murmuring reassuringly, and then wraps you in his outercloak. "Can you walk, my Queen?" You nod. He slings your unharmed arm around his neck, and you start moving. "You are quite a fighter, my lady," he is chuckling, and you feel the genuine warmth spreading inside from his merry, confident voice. "Everyone said one cannot survive that fall." "Buttercup did not," you rasp. "The pony?" You nod. He shakes his head. "Poor pet. Well, better a pony than a Queen." You actually laugh at that, regretting it immediately, couple of your ribs definitely broken. "Everyone said even if you did not break your neck, you definitely succumbed by now and froze to your death." Although he delivers this idea in a cheerful tone, praising your endurance, the thought is still frightening, and you shiver. "Uncle did not listen, obviously. Send us all down, he himself is searching a bit ahead. They think they need to dig, in case you got buried under all this snow. Wait till they hear that I found you still marching!" He whistles in approval, and you are flooded by giddy affection for the young Dwarf. "Fili?" "Aye?" "When we get back to Erebor, I'll convince Thorin to gift you with those daggers you fancy so much." He is grinning and nods, "You just hold on, al'right? We still have to get back there first." You nod again, and you two tread ahead.


	5. Kili

A/N: It was supposed to be a Kili-centered piece but it broke free and galloped away :) Now there is so much Thranduil in it that I will need to write an "extra Dwarf on the side" piece next. More testerone, less hair product! :)

rukhs = Orc

furkh = life

melhekh = King

dohyaral = smith

The Orc falls on the ground, your sword slipping from his body with a wet squelching noise. You momentarily feel regret for a life taken, but you will have to grieve later. The next one is moving faster, he is smaller, almost your height. You tell yourself to stop seeing a living being in him, otherwise you will not be able to strike a blow. The Orc on the other hand will not hesitate. His eyes are mad, the face is revolting. You swirl and, diving low, you sink the foible into his chest. At least, his death was quick. You turn around and see Kili pulling his sword out of a body of another Orc on the ground. He is unscathed, mumbling angrily, "Filthy rukhs." At that moment searing pain pierces your shoulder, and your breath hitches. One of the Orcs under Kili's feet is still holding his hand in the air, the handle of his short grimy dagger protruding from your flesh. The last thing you see is Kili's sword penetrating the thick skull. Thankfully, your consciousness is slipping, and you are spared from hearing the champing sound.

The world is growing dark, and you constrict your magic in a tight coil around the beating heart of your daughter in your abdomen. Your blood is clean, the blade is soiled but there is no poison. You seal the wound, and the rest of your energy surges to the child. Your power boils up in your veins, and you rush it towards the warm sphere inside you. It creates a pulsating impenetrable shield around her, and you let yourself succumb to the unconsciousness.

You open your eyes and stare in the blazing eyes of your King. He is pale, and the skin on his face looks parched, overstretched over the bones of his skull. You smile and lift your hand to him. He presses his face into your palm, and you feel hot tears trickling down your wrist. You look at the ceiling and realize you are in Mirkwood. You were ambushed on the borders of the Greenwood the Great.

You place your other hand on your stomach and feel the even, joyous vibe that your ever so ebullient unborn daughter emanates. "I think she actually enjoyed the rush of the fight," you voice is raspy from the lack of use but you try to sound light-hearted. The King does not seem to be handling the situation well. Surely, King Thranduil explained him what was going on.

"Do not jest, my furkh," the King's voice is scratchy, he snatches your other hand and hides his face in your palms, "You were asleep for eight days." That explains his presence. "Surely King Thranduil explained that it was just my magic protecting the child. Until there was absolutely no danger and the wound was mostly healed, my body just needed rest. Pain in a mother's body causes a child distress." You are looking at him softly and he shifts his eyes guiltily. So, the Elvenking indeed tried to comfort your distraught melhekh, but the stubborn Dwarven distrustfulness is hard to overcome. You sigh, and the King presses his lips to your small round stomach. "She is unharmed then, is she not?" You hum in agreement and thread you fingers through his mane. "Give me some water, please, my King".

You try to sit up and the King clutches onto your shoulder. "Is it wise, kurdu?" "I am in no pain, my Lord, except from your hand crushing my shoulder." He swiftly lets go and helps you, pushing silken pillows under your lower back. You take a goblet from his hands and greedily drink the crisp invigorating water. As soon as you tear the goblet from our lips, you ask, "Kili? Is he uninjured?" Thorin's face darkens, and he takes a glass from your hands. He turns and places it on the table, and you realize that he is hiding his face from you. "Thorin, what happened?! Is he alive?"

The King is still facing away and in low furious voice he answers, "He lives. Not that I care much." The King gets up and walks to the window. His silhouette is somber and ominous against the soft light of the Greenwood the Great. The understanding comes. "Thorin, it was not his fault. We were ambushed and he did everything..." "Much good it did," the King snarls, but then the line of his shoulders softens and he turns to you. "Forgive me, kurdu. I do not wish to speak of it any more."

He sits on your bed again and you study his face. The harsh line of stormy brows, lips pressed together uncompromisingly, eyes cold and austere, you know the look. Fury of Thorin Oakenshield is unyielding. There is no point to approach this matter now.

The King is stroking your small round stomach and presses his ear to it. "Still not for another two months," you remind him. "Remember how long you had to wait with Thror?" "She might want to talk to me earlier," his sincere and serious tone makes you chuckle. She might as well. You foresee a special bond between these two, built on mutual adoration and complete disregard for rules and other people's opinions. She will twist him around her little finger, and he will place all the treasure of Erebor to her feet. And the Moon, if she ever asks for it on a whim.

The coming days pass in tedious rest, thankfully interrupted by a few bright moments when the Elvenking and a few others visit. Thranduil is a riddle indeed, and you feel a strange closeness to him when his tall figure towers in your guest chambers. His low spellbinding voice, soft touch of his hand to your stomach that you gladly allow and his deceivingly lifeless eyes are mesmerizing, and you cannot conceive why he would come back for another visit, but he always does. Gracefully seated on a stool beside your bed, the Elf talks with you about trees, herbs and your past travels. His distant manners are surprisingly charming, and you catch yourself blushing.

Thorin is boiling, his jealousy and general animosity towards Elves only constrained by the gratitude for sheltering and assisting you and the duty of a guest. During the increasingly longer visits by the King of Wood-elves, your melhekh occupies the furthest corner of the chambers, silent, stormy and menacing. He stares through the window, his back turned to you and your captivating visitor.

Once your bedrest is lifted, you partake long walks around Thranduil's Halls, once again the Elvenking offering himself as your companion. Thorin stays in the chambers, and you suppose that all he does there is probably sitting with a blank stare and gnashing his teeth.

You are also visited by Fili, who rushed to Mirkwood together with his uncle when you were injured. The first time he comes, he is distraught and apologetic for his brother, but you assure him that you do not see Kili's fault in what happened. Fili nods and stays silent. For the first time in the years you have known the golden maned Dwarf, he is sullen, and soon enough you manage to extricate the truth out of him.

The King has disowned his younger nephew and banned him from ever returning to Erebor. You gasp and press a hand to your mouth. Fili is begging you not to reveal your awareness to the King. "Kili is heartbroken, but he blames himself too," the older prince is staring on his clasped hands. "Had anything happened to you or the babe…" "It still would not have been his fault," you interrupt. "That is not how my brother sees it. He thinks he deserves being cast out." "Where is he now?" Fili shakes his head. "I do not know. When it became known that you are recovering, he left without telling me." Obviously, so that his brother would not follow. Fili visits a few more times but the conversation is strained.

One day, during another walk with Thranduil you are approached by a tall female Elf, and you recognise Tauriel, the Captain of the Border Guard of Mirkwood. In your previous visits intended as an attempt of building the relationships between the two Kingdoms, she would always be present through the meetings concerning the safety of the borders. You recall her astute concise opinions in the matters of security and the immediate tongue-tied and wary awkwardness when any other topic was approached. You also recall the heated glances your younger nephew by marriage was bestowing her. After years of being the recipient of a romantic attention from a Dwarf, you know that it is an all-or-nothing deal. Either you are open to the idea of a bond with a Dwarf and you get dragged into a whirlpool of fervourous affair, and then there is no point in fighting the current. Or if you refuse them, they move on, their pride not allowing them to pine and sulk. Judging by Kili's passionate staring and seemingly accidental brushing of hands, he did not receive a refusal.

The Elvenking excuses himself, and you invite Tauriel to join you. "How do you fare, my lady?" You chuckle and rub your stomach. "People always ask after my health. I'm not ailing, I'm with child." "I am asking as you were stabbed in your shoulder." He bites her lip and clenches her fists behind her back. "Forgive me..." "You have nothing to apologize for, Tauriel, some direct talk is rather refreshing, to be honest. I am well," you smile and see that she is wringing her fingers behind her back. She is probably centuries older than you but you feel rather maternally protective of her. "Speak your mind, Tauriel. It is always easier." "It is the King Thorin's younger nephew. He was prohibited from returning to his home." "Yes, he was." "He is dwelling outside the gates to the King's Halls. Camping," her uneasiness seems to increase and you assume she is worried you would ask exactly how much association the Elven Captain and the young Dwarf retain. You smile with the corners of your mouth and hope she takes good care of the prince. He can be reckless and is not very good with starting fire.

"King Thorin is a temperamental ruler, but he is just," you speak and she lowers her head. "Eventually." She jerks her head up and looks at your with giant hazel eyes. She is indeed an exquisite beauty but you also see a fair and brave spirit behind the flawless looks. No wonder Kili is so infatuated. "He just needs some time. And guidance. As I am sure you will soon find out, the Durin's Folk is in constant need of a firm female hand. Without us they are lost." She blushes and looks positively mortified. You spare her sensitivities and continue, "I will speak with the King when the opportune moment arrives. I only wish Kili knew that I do not place any blame on him, and I am sure, deep inside neither does the King. He will soon be allowed to come back to Erebor, he just needs to be patient." You give her a pointed look, excuse yourself and leave a stunned Elven maiden behind you.

Few days later when the night descends on Mirkwood, you feel the heavy body of your King slipping under the covers. You move closer and place your palm on his chest. He sighs but stays silent and immobile. You start stroking the hard muscles, slowly adding a bit of scratching of your nails through the coarse hair. "What do you talk about with King Thranduil during your long walks?" You hide a smirk and slide your hand lower. He inhales loudly, the tips of your fingers drawing languished swirls on his abdomen.

You have not been intimate since you were wounded, and the slight caress is apparently enough for his member to wake up. The breeches tent and you bite down on your lip to hide a smile. "Herbs mostly." He is stubbornly fighting his arousal, the irritation of jealousy accumulated in the last weeks still making him peevish. "How much is there to discuss?" You lift your face and give him a sceptical look from under a cocked brow. "Are you mocking my trade, my King?" He presses your head back on his chest with his gentle warm palm. "Just herbs?" You cannot hold a chuckle back and press your lips to his skin. His whole body jerks. "You do realize, my King, that the Elvenking only spends so much time with me to irk you?"

You do not know if it is completely true, but there is no need to tell it to Thorin. During your walks, you do indeed discuss herbs and trees, the woods and forests you have seen in your previous travels, the essences and brews you have prescribed. Nevertheless, through these talks you feel that you are leading another, underlying conversation with the Elvenking. He never directs asks about your magic, but the question is always there. He also often asks after your children, attributing his inquiries to a kindred interest of a father.

Your son, Thror, left at Erebor under the care of older Dwarves is a strong stubborn youngling, with seemingly nothing inherited from you. He looks like his father and is a very skillful warrior for his age, his only interests lying in weaponry and precious metals. He is obsessed with the Dwarven Kings of the past, spends seemingly endless hours in the library, researching the wars and the crafts of the past. He is a frequent companion to Balin, most their conversation revolving around the lost domain of Khazad-dum. A stranger would never assume that there is a single drop of non-Dwarven blood in him.

Your daughter though… Sometimes you feel a strange tinge of unfamiliar magic in the warm globe surrounding her, as if her effervescent and curious mind prodding yours. Sometimes you think that you are imagining it, like most pregnant women who believe their child to be a direct descendant of Valar and have a special connection with their mothers. Many times you had to explain to an overzealous expecting mother that the tingling that she feels coming up from her babe is not some ancient magic awakening but in actuality is just a heartburn.

One thing you know for sure. King Thranduil is still not entirely sure what made the Lord of Silver Fountains, the King of Carven Stone, the King Under the Mountain Thorin Oakenshield to disregard the centuries old, rigid customs and beliefs of his prejudiced people and choose a small unremarkable maiden from Gondor as his wife. In your long conversations you shared that you were born in the north of the Kingdom, omitting the exact circumstances. Sometimes you catch the Elvenking's penetrating gaze, his cold blue eyes scrutinizing your face as if trying to see inside your mind and find that one secret weapon you yielded to capture the heart and the spirit of your King. You let him wonder.

At the moment the King Under the Mountain is grumbling, "That pointy eared bastard." You laugh, "Tell me you have realized it before, my Lord." You slide on top of him and stretch over his hot, eager body. He oomphs when your pelvis brushes over his raging erection. "Have I realized it earlier, I would have stopped this nonsensical dawdling." His hands are roaming your backside, hips buck up and he starts sucking at your throat. You tilt your head allowing him more access, and then swiftly sit up grounding your weight into his hips. He hisses. "Careful, woman!" You shift your hips and whisper into his ear, "Has your sword been annealed and readied for tempering?" Low delectable rumble reverberates through him. He rolls you underneath him and bites your neck. "I love it when you talk forgery." You laugh salaciously and grab his ears. "Your anvil awaits you, my dohyaral."

He is sliding down your body, hands grabbing the hemline of your dress, greedy scorching lips pressed to your calves, knees, inner thighs. You are moaning and pulling at his hair. "I am afraid a punishment is in order for you, my Queen," he is growling into your flesh. "What is my crime, my Lord?" You are panting but play your role of a wrongly accused with ardour. "For torturing me all these weeks. What was I to assume was the reason for our prolonged stay here?" "I did not stay here for King Thranduil's company if that is what you are presuming, my ever so jealous King. His knowledge of the plants of the region is exceptional," you yelp when he nips on your skin especially hard, "but it is not applicable in my midwifery. The flora… the flora of Erebor is different in..." You forget what you were saying as you feel his tongue moving over the burning skin on your inner thigh. You drawers slide down your legs and you feel his hot breath between your legs. "Then what was the reason?"

The temptation to figuratively speaking bite your tongue and concentrate on ravishing your King is powerful, but you have matters to attend. "I stayed for Kili." The Dwarf between your thighs becomes rigid, and your sensitive center laments the lack of the charring heat of his lips and breath. He lifts his eye at you, and they are hurt. You momentarily feel like a traitor but you need to aid both of the stubborn Dwarves. "Am I to understand that at this very moment you wish to discuss the younger son of my sister?" The fact that he is still between your legs and not yelling and pacing around the room is a good sign. You feel more confident that he himself regrets his harshness. You run your fingers through his hair and caress his ears. "He is your sister-son." The king scoffs. "And you hardly blame him more than he blames himself."

He sits up and sighs. "He endangered your life and the life of our unborn child. He was outwardly reckless, chose a path wrongly and failed to protect you." You sit on your knees in front of him. "I chose the longer path as I wanted to investigate the herbs near it. And none of us could predict a rogue group of Orcs so close to Mirkwood. He fought bravely, as all the others in the company. My injury was not to be foreseen or averted." "He was in charge of you!" The King roars and slams his palm into the sheets. The sound is unassuming, and it irks him even stronger. He looks around in an obvious search for a projectile weapon. "Noone is in charge of me," you are firm. "I chose the path and if anything I was the one responsible for our child's safety. Do you blame me for the wound?" "Of course not!" "Had any tragedy occurred," you place your hands on your stomach protectively, "would you have banned me from Erebor?" "No!" The king is outraged. "Then lift your ban from Kili's return. He has been punished enough."

You see the battle behind the King's brows. The love for his kin is challenging his anger. You see how the harsh treatment of his nephew pains him now, and he caves in. "He can come back," you wrap your arms his neck and press a kiss on his bearded cheek. He persists ill-temperedly, "I will look weak and inconstant by allowing my nephew to avoid responsibility. It has not been even a few months that I'm changing my decision." "You have noone to answer to for your change of heart, Thorin, you are the King," you fawn over him, stroking his chest and pressing your lips to his throat. "The mighty, majestic, unsurpassable King of Erebor," he tilts his head back, "the Lord of Silver Fountains, the unyielding and feared King of Durin's Folk." He wraps you in his massive arms and topples you onto the sheets. He looks at you with glinting eyes and murmurs, "How did I end up married to a silver-tongued temptress?" You lick along his strong neck and purr, "Sheer luck."


	6. Nori

Surprisingly, you owe the friendship of two of your closest friends to Nori, the slightly elusive, red haired Dwarf from the original company of Thorin Oakenshield. The first one of them Naina, daughter of Benrir is a vivacious, humorous maiden, food enthusiast and an expert in brewing ale. She is short, flirty and at the time you meet her she is on the lookout for a good husband.

It is your second month in Eredor, and you are going mad. Idleness and boredom are killing you, your healer's sack having been forgotten in a corner of a study your King has allocated for you. Most of the warriors you have treated in the infirmary in Dale do not require your attention any more, and none other Dwarf comes to a healer from Men. You are questioning your choice, your skills and your sanity. The King, as supportive as he is of your vocation, is a handful himself. Navigating the perilous waters of your still young affiliation, his temper and stubbornness, your personal misgivings and at the same time doubting your own worth is draining.

You are sitting in the study, absorbed in a book of medical herbs Master Balin has found for you in the library. Your knowledge of Khuzdul medical terms leaves much to be desired and the unknown author is peppering his pages with notes purely consisting of them. Apparently, no matter the race, healers' handwriting is always reminiscent of chicken scratching dirt in a yard looking for seeds.

A polite knock on your door shakes you out of your concentration, and you see Nori and a young Dwarven maiden at the threshold. He bows and smiles slightly mischievously. "Honourable healer,' you like his voice, with a constant hidden jesting in it. He always makes people wonder if it is at their expense, though. "Allow me to introduce my cousin, Naina, daughter of Benrir." You get up and greet the maiden. She is smiling wide and her eyes dart all over you in open cheerful curiosity.

She is shorter than you but you could probably wrap yourself in her dress three times. And what a dress it is! You are already familiar with the dressing habits of the Dwarven women, and the attire on Naina is the most expensive and exquisite you have seen so far. Your own sober, demure dress is a constant matter of argument with the King. If you did not stop him, he would wrap you in impractical, sumptuous, extravagant attires, but you remember your place. You are not his concubine, you are a healer of Men, residing in Erebor by her own free will, who just happens to spend her nights in his bedchambers. By choice and voluntarily. Oh, how much voluntariness there is in you!..

Naina smiles and you bestow her a bow as well. You have adopted the masculine habit to set yourself separate from Dwarven maiden and as a sign of self-assurance. The warriors you fought with at the battlefield and the ones you treated after seemed to have accepted that, and you lift your chin high.

Naina suddenly squeals and claps her hands in glee. "How delightful, she is delightful!" She turns her shining eyes to Nori, "She is as magnificent as you said!", and before you have time to get offended, she grabs your hands and shakes them both. "We are to become wonderful friends, Khazad Bahinh!" You acquired the moniker "The Friend-lady of the Dwarves" while still in Dale and are very proud of it.

"My cousin is ailing, but the matter is delicate," Nori's green eyes are glinting with the conspiratorial mirth. "I felt you would be the most skilled healer to consult." You look at the maiden and she bites her lower lip. "I will be happy to aid you, my lady." Nori smile a knowing smile and bows to you both, "I will leave you two to your matters. I believe all your troubles will vanish in no time, Naina." He retreats, and you turn to the maiden.

Naina is surveying your study, and you point at a chair in the corner. "Please, be seated. Tell me of your ailment." She lowers her full, endlessly graceful body and says, "I need a husband."

You feel like a fool. That is what your skills and knowledge are used for these days? Match making? And who in their sane mind would think that you would be the parson to go for it to? You school your face in a polite interested expression, not to offend the girl, and she continues, "I have inherited a sizable wealth from my father, a distinguished merchant of Ered Luin, and I receive a lot of proposals. But none of the suitors are to my liking," she is very confident and you feel that you are probably missing something. Why is she here? "They are either weak, or the beards are too short, some have not received recognition in a battle. They are disappointing!" Her face is mournful, and you feel like giggling. Dwarven maidens are very picky regarding their mates, having the privilege of almost endless choices, since they are twice as many male Dwarves as there are female, and not all maidens desire to marry. But Naina's sincere anguish over the quality of men around is adorable. She is chewing her lips and then moves closer to your, the legs of the chair loudly skidding on the stone floor. "I live with my aunt, she is very old. You see, my mother passed away when I was a babe, and I have no sisters or friends for that matter to help me. I asked Master Nori if he knows any females whom I could ask about matrimonial matters, and he said my lady is the best choice. He is very knowledgeable." She picks up your hands again and peers into your eyes. "Master Nori said I can be honest with you, you are a clever woman. Help me, Khazad Bahinh!" she is looking at your desperately and her beautiful hazel eyes are pooling with tears.

You are at a loss. "Are you asking me to find you a husband?" You sound shocked. "Of course not, there are plenty to choose from, the right one will come at the end," she is shaking her head, and you feel even more confused. "So what help are you asking me for, my lady?" She gulps and her round cheeks above the charming blond beard are burning in increasingly hot blush. "I really need a husband," she is repeats, pointedly pronouncing every word as a separate sentence. "Sometimes when I look at some men, even if I am not even considering marrying them, I feel dizzy and they suddenly seem very... dashing. I cannot sleep, my body is on fire, I feel restless..." She closes her eyes, her adorable ears are burning. "Is there any herb that will stop it?"

And at that moment all your competence is required not to start snickering. You bite your lip and squeeze her hands in return. "Naina, do you feel heat pooling in your middle and below your waist when you look at certain Dwarves?" Her eyes fly open and she hesitantly nods. "Is your unease worse during certain days of the moon?" She nods again. "You do not need any herbs for that, Naina. What you need is a long hot bath and I will teach you what to do..."

Your other friend, Myrna, has come into your life with a bang. The sound was more reminiscent of a thud, to think of it, since the giant book she was hitting Nori to the head was leather clad and, though very heavy, rather soft. Myrna is the only Dwarven maiden you have ever overheard saying that she wishes to be born a man. Her main devotion is her library, the cold, seemingly endless chain of halls, dug deep into the flesh of the Lonely Mountain, stretching down into countless levels and to the sides into intricate passages. Officially Myrna's uncle is in charge of the books of Erebor but everyone knows that Myrna is the queen of the vast, frigid space.

The thud is loudly echoing among the shelves, and you look down from the ladder you are standing on. This is your ninth month in Erebor, and you are finally starting to see a reasonable amount of patients. Cue constant reading and studying. The King is grumbling, deprived of your attention in the evenings, but you are ecstatic. Herbs around Erebor are diverse, most of them with strong healing qualities, and you spend days studying, collecting and drying them. You deliver your first Dwarven youngling and have to hide in your chambers that night, crying and laughing at the same time, at the sheer beauty and euphoria of the moment. The King finds you and you throw yourself into his arms. That night he is rewarded for his patience through your studies, and the slightly dazed look does not leave his cerulean eyes for a few day.

Until the memorable day when you meet Myrna, you have only dealt with her uncle, the Royal Librarian Glumur, son of Nyr. He is courteous, endlessly willing to help and very, very old. He requires an ear trumpet to hear and sometimes forgets that you are not a Dwarf. He does call you "my Queen" though, and you forgive his occasional slipping into pure Khuzdul. You consider it good practice.

You climb down the ladder and go to investigate. Myrna is batting Nori to the head with a giant book and is screaming on the top of her lungs. You can bet, such noise has not been heard in the chilly emptiness of the Library for hundreds of years. "How dare you come to me, in my library with such propositions?" He is covering his head with his arms. The blows keep on coming. "You think you can buy my affection with your smuggled goods, you abominable crook?!" "But Myrna, it is a gift!" He is lowering his head and tries to avoid her smacking, but you see that he is not leaving and only edges closer. "You love books, it is a rare manuscript from the times of the Last Alliance!" "It is fake!" And the last strong blow falls on his head.

He grabs her around the waist and presses his lips to hers. The book falls on the floor with a dull thud, and she moans, wrapping her arms around his neck. You are trying to quietly withdraw into a dark passage but the back of your knees bump into a stool, in the worst traditions of such anecdotal occurrences, and you stumble loudly. The lovers jump away from each other and stare at you. Nori comes to his senses first and in a slightly raspy voice he says, "Myrna, allow me to introduce you to Lady Wren, Khazad Bahinh, the beloved of King Thorin the Second." You bow to the violently blushing librarian and without thinking she bows back.

Bonding over your mutual fanaticism towards books, you quickly become close friends. They get married the next Summer, and at their wedding you whisper the story into Thorin's ear. His eyes are shining from all the ale consumed and the elation of the celebration, and he whispers back, his hot breath on your neck sending shivers down your spine, "I would love you to show me around the library, zundush. I am certain there passages there I have not explored yet."


	7. Bombur (part 1)

**All right, my lovelies, before you proceed reading it, two things:**

**1. This chapter initially was to be Bombur-centered. The poor fellow is not even mentioned in this part. There will be the second half and he will receive the due attention.**

**2. The smutness in this chapter erupted like Vesuvius and is exceeding my previous levels :) I got carried away and the chapter got long and steamy. So, consider yourself warned! This chapter will bump up the rating for the whole story.**

**And regarding some of the previous reviews I got:**

**RedHairedJenna and Ragdollprincess: I know! It's all very macho-filled around her. But firstly, she does have friends, they will receive the attention they deserve. Secondly, I think she is friends with some male Dwarves as well, Dwalin and Balin, for sure, maybe Bofur. I'm really looking forward to writing Balin, he is a magnificent complex character.**

**sarah0406: Tolkien only gives the names of fathers as people's monikers. For example, Thorin, son of Thrain. Names of mothers are never mentioned. Actually, Dis, Fili and Kili's mother, is the only female Dwarf with a name in the whole body of his works. Speaking of misogyny in the Victorian era… **

**And I promise that every member of Thorin's company will get a chapter! They are all such delicious characters to sink your teeth into :)**

Thea is like a forest fire, swift and devastating, white hot, creating havoc wherever she goes. She is roaring through Erebor, searing and sizzling, and these are the happiest of days. She arrives with a group of merchants during your fourth year in Erebor. You are already betrothed to the King, the ancient necklace is gleaming on your collarbones, and every day is the best you have ever lived.

You have visited her in Dale twice by now, but she resisted coming to Erebor. Dwarves are indeed prejudiced and sometimes even mistrustful towards Men, even though Dale and Esgaroth enjoy blooming trading relationships with the Dwarven Kingdom. As the soon-to-be Queen Under the Mountain you assure her that her trip will be splendid, and she arrives, hazel locks flowing and gleaming eyes wide open.

She is at least two heads taller than Thorin who is rather stately for a Dwarf. Her waist is minuscule, her skin is smooth and rosy, like a ripe peach. She has tiny hands, and in a nutshell everything about her is unattractive for a Dwarf.

The first fight for her attention happens the next day after her arrival. Servants and two guards from the Royal Halls were sent to meet her at the gate and accompany her to her chambers. In the evening of her first day in Erebor you two are sitting on her bed with a pitcher of wine, laughing and talking about anything and everything, until a servant arrives from the irritated King demanding the presence of his Queen. You both giggle, just a moment before it she was extorting details of your intimacy with the sensuous Dwarf out of you, and you leave promising to see her the first thing in the morning.

The next morning the two guards from the day before are rudely shoving each other in the corridor, each one of them apparently not ready to give up the right to let her know that her trunks have arrived.

The situation gets out of control on the third day when two young Dwarves actually reach for a pair of battle axes, while you are showing Thea the city and you two visit the central market. Unfortunately, she decides to try on some fabrics in the vicinity of a smith shop, and a pair of younglings that were ogling the weaponry in there go into competitive frenzy for her attention. They are dragged apart and you two are escorted back to the castle.

Luckily, the King is in a good mood that day, above all due to the pleasantly spent morning hours in your arms, and he is laughing. You two try to look solemn and remorseful, but snickers burst out of you. The King shakes his head and tells you and your guest to stay in the castle not to cause upheaval in the city.

Two days later loud clanking originating from the inner yard wakes you up. The King is grumbling and scooping you to bury his face into your neck. "My Lord," you shake his shoulder. He mumbles and nuzzles into you. "My Lord!" "Mmmm, you smell nice," he is pressing you even closer and you think you hear couple of your ribs crack. "Thorin," you try to escape the bear hug and shake him more. He opens one blue eye, gives you a drowsy goofy smile and immediately goes back to sleep. You relinquish your attempts and decide it is easier just to go back to sleep as well. By now you are used to sleeping tightly encased in the King Under the Mountain.

The clanking and rumbling of seemingly hundreds of metal plates thunders through the yard, and the King jumps up. His hand is clenched over the handle a wide Dwarven dagger he keeps under his pillow, and he is blinking like an owl in the daylight. You dash to the window into the inner yard and see several Dwarves rushing around, dragging what seems to be training dummies and targets. You have a very bad feeling about it.

The King is yelling calling servants. "My Lord, you should get dressed first," you are pointing at his naked body with your eyes. He grabs breeches from the floor, and pulling them on he is grumbling and quietly cursing in Khuzdul. "Some clothes on you would be also appreciated, my Queen," you are covering yourself with a sheet hastily pulled off the bed. Then he gives you another glance and says thoughtfully, "But to think of it again, you should just go back to bed and wait for me." He leaves and you hear his booming voice in the corridor.

Banging and clanging continue. You fall back to bed and hide your head under a pillow. After a few minutes the King returns, his face equally irritated and amused. His lips are twitching and he is muttering, "Inconceivable, simply inconceivable." "My Lord?" "Your friend, my Queen, will be more devastating for this Kingdom than Durin's Bane for Khazad-dum." "Oh, no..." "Oh, yes," his eyes are glinting and he sits on the bed. "What now?" "A few of Erebor's finest warriors decided that the peaceful time has made them soft and indulgent, and they need to renew their training. Thus, the ruckus," he lifts his brow, and you fall back into the pillows laughing. "I do not think that is a reason for frolics, my Lady," he is trying to frown but you can see the smile hiding in the corners of the delectable lips. He stretches his hand under the covers and catches your foot. You roar and start kicking. He does not let go and the second hand snakes between the sheets. He pounces and grabs you bum. You are wriggling and shrieking. He is pulling you across the bed, underneath him and presses you into the sheets. "I demand reparation for my lost sleep," he is purring and you are still fighting, none of you actually believing in your resistance. "It is not my fault, my King, that the females of Men are so enticing!" "Indeed they are," he leans in and catches your lips. You cease the pretense struggle and wrap your arms around his neck.

His lips, hot and demanding, slip to your neck, and he pushes your chin up with his nose to gain better access to your neck. You hug his waist with your legs, and the short nightdress slides up your thighs. He is grabbing your butt, and then suddenly he lifts you and flips you on your stomach. The searing palms are grazing your buttocks and back, the nightdress is on the floor in the matter of seconds. You stretch your body and spread your legs. He growls, and you hear the whoosh of his shirt and breeches flying through the room. His mouth is on the round piece of flesh covering your tailbone, and you moan. His tongue is caressing your ass, and you are writhing. He slides his hand between your legs and under your mound, and lifts your pelvis from the sheets. Gently biting your nates, he gets on his knees behind you, and placing his palm on your breasts he makes you rise on straight arms. You arch your back, and you are sure a wicked smirk is playing on his lips. The hands are rubbing your bum in round movements, and you are wet and eager.

And then suddenly he spanks you. You gasp in shock. He is quiet, waiting for your reaction, only his fast breathing heard in the room. You arch your back harder and moan, "More." He exhales sharply, and stroking one cheek with a warm palm, he gives another a sharp smack. It is not painful but the sting is there. You moan and feel your dampness covering your inner thighs. "More?" he asks, his voice raspy and strained. "Yes," your answer is but a whisper. He is quiet again, contemplating, his palm not ceasing the circular caresses. Then he takes it off and puts the other on the already slapped cheek. You hiss, you have not realized that it would be so sensitive. He pauses and asks, "Are you certain?" You gulp and nod. The third smack is harder, and you scream out and cave in, falling on the bed.

He is near you in an instant, wrapping you in his arms. You turn your face to him. His cheeks are burning, eyes are almost black, dilated pupils hiding blue irises. You lean in and kiss his lips lovingly. He reciprocates and starts rolling you over when you hiss again from the tender skin touching the sheets. He tears his mouth from you and looks at your bum. "It is red," he sounds surprised. And guilty. You chuckle. "That is to be anticipated." He looks remorseful. "We are never doing it again." "I asked for it, remember?" He looks into your eyes as if questioning your honesty. You smile and kiss him again. He kisses you back, moves to your neck and then nuzzles your throat. "It was a wee bit too lewd." And you are laughing. "So never again, my Lord?" He guiltily shifts his eyes. You lift a brow. "We shall see," his voice is almost inaudible. You laugh again and push him into the pillows.

You straddle the King and rake your nails through the thick chest hair. His cock jerks and hardens under your pelvis, momentarily distracted by the emotional agitation. You smirk and lifting your pelvis you wrap your hand around it. Then you lead him inside, and he gives a throaty moan. You start moving and he is throwing his head back. His hands are on your waist, much more gentle than usual, no crushing your hip bones or guiding your movements. You press your palms into his chest. "Thorin?" He opens his eyes and looks at you. "I liked it, stop brooding", and then you dig your nails into the hard muscles. He groans. "As long as we both enjoy it..." You thrust your hips and immediately follow it with a sting of your nails. He groans out, "Oh, I do for certain..." You laugh and pick up your speed. Soon enough you fall on him, the scorching wave of climax rushing through your body.

He places his hands on your back to caress you through your release, but you are in a feisty mood today. You quickly sit up and then you see a sheer shock on the King's face as you slowly turn facing in the opposite direction, keeping your pelvis grounded into his and clenching your inner walls around his shaft. He sobs, "Mahal," and his hands fly to your hips. You lift your pelvis and then drop it down with an obscene slap of skin on skin. Thorin's hips buck up and he is snarling through his teeth. You repeat the action, and then again. He raspily cries out and spills into you. His body is convulsing, violent tremors going through him, breathing loud and laboured. He is muttering something in Khuzdul, his body still not stopping to shake. Then he drops his head back into the pillows and closes his eyes.

You allow him some time to recover and lift your hips from his softened member. He hisses, and then moans. You slip into his arms and he wraps you into warm embrace. He kisses your temple and then opens his mouth to say something. But no words come, and he just gives you another kiss. No words are needed. You snuggle into him and close your eyes.


	8. Bombur (part 2)

**A/N: You will need the right visual for this one. Seriously, google "ox stance in swording" and imagine our dashing King in it. You will not regret it! :)**

You wake up couple hours later from boisterous cheering under your window. You try to hide into the King's shoulder but the noise is growing louder. He stirs and sits up, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. "We fell asleep." You pull the blanket over your head and grumble, "And I would prefer to stay that way." He chuckles, "We missed breakfast. And it is rather unbecoming of the royal couple to stay in their chambers so late. Our subjects might think we are up for something improper." You giggle into the pillow. "Swording practice?" "Minx," he pulls the blanket off you and kisses your shoulder blade. "Time to start the day. And I will begin with putting an end to this treacherous commotion," he gets up and looks out of the window and freezes. "What in the name of Mahal and the Seven Fathers?.."

He dresses up hastily and disappears from the chambers. You stretch and drag yourself out of the bed. You wrap a sheet around you and peek through the window. The inner yard is full of activity. Training dummies are scattered on the open part of the court, several Dwarves attacking them with axes and swords. On the covered balconies opposite to your window you see many others, both male and female, gesticulating vividly, ale and food are being served, servants scurrying around, young squires carrying weapons and shields. You shake your head and start getting ready.

After a quick bath and finally dressed you leave your chambers and go to the yard. The pandemonium seems to have reached its peak, everywhere you hear roaring laughter and loud conversations. Female Dwarves are chatting and pointing at especially zealous trainees. Older Dwarves are seated on tall chairs, probably gathered from nearby houses, and mannerly stroking their beards and smoking their pipes they discuss the younger ones practicing. Younglings are comparing weaponry, you see Kili at the back, he is swirling a short wide sword in his left hand. A young squire dashes by you, dragging an archery target.

In the middle of the covered balcony that you could not see from your window you find Thea, sitting on a short stool, but still towering over a group of giggling Dwarven maidens. They are delicately chewing pieces of apple tart and pepper cake, sip cider and whisper into each others' ears. You see Naina, your closest friend, on Thea's left. She is chewing an apple and strokes her round stomach. Her first born is a girl, she is expected by the summer solstice.

You approach and the maidens greet you gleefully and respectfully. There is an empty chair left for you to the right from Thea. "Wren!" She is wildly waving with a piece of a cake. Then she remembers where she is and corrects herself, "My Queen." "I am not yet a Queen," you chuckle and take your seat. She gestures dismissively at your humility with the treat in her hand. "Try this spicy cake, it is remarkable!" The cake is indeed delectable, especially since you are starving. "You missed breakfast, my Queen," she looks at you pointedly. "Royal affairs to attend." "Oh? And how were the affairs?" "Exceptionally good." You smirk into a goblet of cider. "Uh-huh," she is wiggling her eyebrows. A few of maiden giggle, including Naina, and you wonder what people say about your relationships with the King behind your back. You do tend to sleep in a lot these days.

"What is going on here, Thea?" You attempt a stern look but fail. "It is not my fault," she whines and some of the girls giggle again. "I met this wonderfully courteous Dwarf this morning, when I was looking for the dining hall, and we just started chatting. He told me he was one of the King's best warriors and had actually been on the quest with the King to reclaim Erebor and kill the dragon. It sounded very romantic, and I asked to see his sword." You choke on cider. "You asked what?" "I wanted to see if they are shorter and wider than a sword of a Man." You need to give her credit. Not a single muscle on her face twitches while she is smoothly pouring out these innuendos. Naina is suddenly coughing, seemingly having choked on her water. She is happily married and apparently familiar with the metaphors. You rub her back and give Thea a glare. "So he started telling me all these remarkable things about Dwarven warfare, and then he decided it is easier to show. On the way to the armoury we met his friend and he decided to join us." You feel a bit unwell and brace yourself for the continuation of her story. "And?" "Then they started arguing, who was a better warrior, who made himself distinguished in what battle, all this boring male talk, and then they decided to compare their skills on a dummy. One led to another and a few more people joined." "A few more people?! Thea, all of Erebor is here."

Then you realize that the last time you saw the King was when he was heading to cease this ruckus. You wonder what happened to him and survey the yard. Then you see Bofur passionately arguing with some older Dwarf, and he is gesturing at the balcony you sit on. He catches your eyes and gives a low bow. You give him a gracious wave and laugh. "Is that the Dwarf you were talking about?" "Yes," Thea throws him a glance from under her lashes, "Beautiful eyes, don't you think?" Girls giggle, and you bite your lip suppressing a smile. "I think it is hardly becoming of the future Queen to look at any other Dwarf's eyes except those of her King." "Indeed, forgive me," she presses her palm on top of her magnificent breasts. "I sometimes forget that you already got yourself a looker of a Dwarf." Some girls freeze, their eyes wide open, such insolence unheard of. You feel light and giddy and nod, "He is quite that, isn't he?" Naina squeals in delight, and the girls burst in laughter.

"What are you, ladies, chatting about in here?" the flirtatious drawl of your older soon-to-be nephew is coming from the behind the balcony rails. Thea's ears prick up, and she licks her lips. The positively criminal raspiness of Fili's voice is stroking just the right cords in her heart. Or other organs. The temptress and the charmer, what can possibly go wrong? You shake your head predicting chaos. Half of the girls blush and snicker, including to your disbelief Naina. "Thea, allow me to introduce Fili, King Thorin's sister-son, the hero of the Battle of Five Armies, the oldest heir in the line of Durin." By your long introduction and a meaningful stare you are sending Thea a clear "hands off!" message. She stretches her hand towards the golden-maned Dwarf, and when he lowers his head to kiss her knuckles she gives you a pitiful look. "Please, can I have this one? Please," her eyes are begging. You draw your brows together and slightly shake your head.

Mahal forgive, you understand, he is as delectable as it gets. He has Thorin's confidence and regal bearing but his eyes are always gleaming with laughter, the world is his playground and nothing ever brings him down. You have a soft spot for the merry sportive Dwarf. You also know that he is the worst choice for Thea's glorious vacation adventure. These two will set Erebor on fire.

At that moment the crowd starts cheering wildly. You see a few Dwarves clad in light armour coming out in the middle of yard. "Oh, sparring, wonderful!" Fili's attention is instantly distracted from the girls, and you breath out in relief. "I have to see that," he bestows a hasty bow and disappears. Thea is pouting. You pat her hand reassuringly and say quietly, "They are Dwarves, Thea, nothing is more important that weaponry and the noble art of smithery."

The opponents take different sides of the yard and then with a deafening roar they rush towards each other. Thea jumps up, never previously having heard the terrifying and magnificent Dwarven battle screams. The bodies clash and sparkles fly from under the blades of two wide swords. Thea gasps and presses her palms onto her mouth. Heavy blows and sturdy blocks follow, the fighters circling the yard, thundering thuds of massive colliding bodies clad in metal armour echoing between the stone walls. One of the fighter binds his opponent's sword and lunges. The other swiftly spins his large body and a heavy blow of his elbow sends his opponent flying. The crowd roars, and Thea is clapping in delight. "I confirm everything I ever said, Wren, about approving of your choice. That is delightful! The strength, the thrust, the stamina!" You roll up your eyes and sip your cider.

Archers step out, and Kili is victorious. With the new addition of a smooth black beard and heavy beads in his hair, he looks dashing, and the girls near you start fervourously murmuring among themselves. "And that is?.." Thea turns to you. "My other soon-to-be nephew. Do not even think about it," you whisper into her ear. "And believe me, as desirable as you are for any male of any race, you are not to his liking." "Too delicate?" She is appraising the dark haired Dwarf. "Surprisingly, probably not enough." She looks at you sideways, but you are already staring at the yard.

Thorin Oakenshield steps in the middle, a jousting sword in his hand, and your breathing hitches. He is majestic, his upper body clad only in a tunic and a vest, his usual brigandine omitted. You feel suddenly very, very hot. Thea turns giant shining eyes to you. "Is this?.." "Uh-huh," you sound breathy. "Is he going to?..." "Uh-huh." "His sword is longer and wider than others'." You know that Thea does not require an explanation. She is just stating the fact, lacing her usual innuendo into her observation. "Because he is taller than most. And because he yields Orcrist, the Goblin Cleaver, an Elven blade forged by Ecthelion, Lord of the Fountain Court." You sound like a fawning youngling. You cannot help it, the King turns you into a quivering puddle of adoration. Especially, when he takes the ox stance, drawing the weapon up and his elbow to the outside. He beckons the Dwarves standing on the verges of the yard, and four armour-clad warriors step ahead.

In a swift spiral of fluid movements he blocks and beats the attacks of all four of them, in a terrifying spin, his wide body moving with menacing grace of a mountain lion. The ebony strands swirl like a raven wing, his tightly coiled body and the heavy sword gain a devastating momentum. He slashes three of the fighters across their breastplates. They tumble, and the fourth receives a calamitous thrust to the chest. He is thrown back, and the King lowers the sword.

The crowd goes mad, and you jump up on your feet clapping. The blue eyes are blazing, his chest heaving, and you have to press your thighs together. A delicious shiver runs through your spine, and you painfully bite your bottom lip. He turns to you and bestows you a low deliberate bow. When he is straightening up, he pins you with his stare, scorching and full of lecherous promises. You fall back into your chair, knees trembling and hands clammy.

"Wren," Thea's eyes are wild. She leans in and hotly whispers in your ear. "If you ever were my friend, Maiar help me, you will find me one." You are still dazy, but then reason prevails and you turn to her. "Thea, we both know that it will not happen. Remember four years ago, we had exactly the same conversation but the roles were reverse. You touch, you buy, Thea. Once you reap this fruit, you are to marry your new pet and stay in Erebor. Are you ready for that?" She hesitates. She looks at Dwarves, exuberantly surrounding the King and clapping him on his shoulders, Fili taking the sword out of his hands. "But they are so…" she is looking for the right word, "appetizing!" "Yes, they are, but are you ready to pick up a stray cat?" The memories of four years ago come back, and you both burst out laughing. Others girls look at you in confusion, since all your previous conversation was conducted in whispers. Thea concedes, "You are right. I'll restrain myself. It will be very hard, but I will be as chaste as a spring flower." You just cannot help it, "Too late for that, Thea." She nudges you with an elbow. "You are such a prude, Wren. And a hypocrite." You chuckle. "That I am."

"Can I at least find myself a companion for my stay here? Nothing improper, just to accompany me to feasts, just a bit of hand holding," she asks innocently. You look at her askew. "We are talking about hands holding hands here, right?" She gasps in feigned shock. "Oh Valar, Wren, I cannot believe it! When have you gotten so corrupted?" "Have you seen the King?" you whisper conspiratorially into her ear. "I have, and I'm surprised you even walk out of your bedchambers. Or walk at all for that matter." "Well, it does hurt a bit to sit on my buttocks today," your thoughtful innocent expression is acted out perfectly, and you take a sip from your mug. This time the shock on Thea's face is genuine. All she can do is gape at you, and then glance down at where the King is conversing with Balin in the yard.

"You can have a companion for this trip, Thea," you permit regally, and add in firm whisper, "but only one. And you will be as demure as I was in Dale until the night I spent with the certain Dwarf." She nods, her mouth still half-open. "Pick one," she opens her mouth, "and stay away from the King's nephews." She pouts, but nods again.

At that moment you see a familiar figure of Bombur stepping ahead, with a mace and an axe in his hands. Thea turns to you, a brow lifted in doubt. "Will he be all right? He looks like a jolly round pumpkin. They should probably go easy on him," she looks sincerely concerned. You hide a smile in your mug, and let her have a pleasant surprise.

You have seen Bombur in a battle, and you are not at all worried about him. You recall the most terrifying spectacle you had seen in your life, when in your first winter in Erebor you saw Bombur, a long-handled battle ax in each hand, spinning in the middle of a horde of Orcs, their heads flying off their shoulders, dark blood splaying on the cold stone of the court of Ravenhill. You owe Bombur your life, both you and Dwalin could hardly stand on your feet by then, having been fighting for four hours straight in the narrow passage between two watchtowers. You remember collapsing on your knees, supporting yourself on your sword, and his surprisingly tender hands picking you up. "My lady?" he looked into your eyes and a warm smile played on his face.

You fondly remember his frolics at your betrothal feast and his voracious appetite. Though a constant source of merriment for other Dwarves, you sometimes think that there so much more in the joyful, gluttonous Dwarf. You recall escaping the feast for a gulp of fresh air and leaning on the wall of a tall balcony. You remember him stepping at the same balcony and jumping away from you startled, a roasted rabbit leg in his hand. You smiled to him and asked whether he was enjoying the celebration. You expected the praise for the wine and the food, but he nodded and said, "It is a pleasure to see the King in such high spirits, Khazad Bahinh. He was ever such a Dwarf with a stiff neck before," and he returned to the hall to drink and eat for many more hours.

Right now he steps on the stone of the yard. Kili runs up to him and shoves a giant mug, which looks more like a bucket with a handle than a cup, into his hands and he empties in without taking a breath. "Oh my, that's quite a vigour!" Thea exclaims. "Finally the famous ravenousness of Dwarves! The round fellow knows how to enjoy life!" At that moment five fighters step towards him and balancing their swords and axes in their hands they start circling him. "I am worried about the bulbous fellow," Thea is pulling your sleeve. "Should you not interfere?"

And then, Bombur lurches ahead, plunging his axe on the shoulder of one of the fighters with an astonishing speed and ferocity. The Dwarf collapses on the ground under the crushing blade, and his body transfers the inertia into Bombur's frame, adding a curve into his pounce. He starts spinning with an increasing velocity, the axes in a horrifying blur and his movements graceful and unrelenting. All his opponents on the ground, he comes to a dexterous stop and loudly demands more ale.

"I pick this one," Thea is resolute and you lift you brows. "This one," she nods affirmingly, and then suddenly shy, a blush that you have never seen on Thea's cheeks blooming, she says, "If he chooses to have me." You pick up her hands and smile, "Thea, any man will be beyond exultant and honoured to be your companion. You are life and fire, Thea, and who can appreciate it better than Bombur?"

**A/N#2: I feel extremely hesitant to confess but... a thought of a modern AU has come to me. Do not judge me! I am endlessly apprehensive, have been trying to shake it out of my head for three days, but it is buzzing and demanding attention. Is it too cliche? I have enough on my plate, besides. I have my external responsibilities, plus new chapters do not let me sleep at night, I am fighting with flooding passages of text in my head when I brush my teeth. But then, think about it, Thorin in Starbucks, his long hair in a pony tail, sunglasses on his nose… An arrogant, cantankerous chef in a restaurant… Or a conceited, self-assured heart surgeon… Wren (I am not ready to let her go), a smart and ruthless lawyer… Or a social worker, disappointed in men… Gah, save me! What to do?**

**A/N#3: Or a series of modern AU one-shots based on one word prompts? *wink wink nudge nudge***


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